The apostate's tale (8 page)

The nave’s west door, used by anyone not of the cloister, opened, letting in a slant of sunlight across the nave’s stone floor and then a man. The sunlight slid away as he closed the door behind him, before Cecely had seen his face, but she had never lost her keen eye regarding men. She had met Master Breredon only a few times, but with the urgency of waiting she was certain of him and stood up, pulling Neddie with her. The next moment she thought better of that and sat again, pulling Neddie down and drawing him firmly to her side with an arm around his shoulders. Both she and Master Breredon should make this seem an unexpected meeting, and she bent her head over Neddie, murmuring to him about nothing in particular while watching Master Breredon come up the nave.

In the “holy gloom” she still did not clearly see his face, but this had to be him. The stocky body, not particularly tall but carried well. The steady, centered tread. It was him. Except he did not come to her. No. He went past her, to the rood screen where he bowed toward the altar in the shadows beyond it, then knelt and bowed his head.

After her first flare of disappointment, Cecely realized that was good. The less there was for anyone to note about him, the better.

Even so, she could not help her impatience as she waited for him to finish the show he was putting on. Neddie moved his head restlessly away from her hand. She realized she was stroking his hair back from his forehead somewhat too hard and stopped, bent to quickly kiss the top of his head, and said, still watching Master Breredon, “There’s a good boy. Just be quiet.” Then, “Here’s someone I want you to meet,” as Master Breredon stood up with the ease of a man with no aches in his bones, bowed again toward the altar, backed away several paces and bowed once more before turning away, looking as if he would leave the church now. After a few steps, though, he turned aside as if on a chance-come thought and came toward her.

Good, thought Cecely. If anyone was watching, it would not look her fault he stopped to talk with her.

Better yet, no one bustled forward to interfere, so chance was they were as unnoted as she hoped. She stood up, drawing Neddie up with her, and curtsied. Master Breredon gave her somewhat of a bow in return, and said quietly, to suit where they were, “Mistress Rowcliffe.”

“Sir.” She pulled Neddie from where he was half hidden behind her skirts, still clinging to one of her hands with both of his. He had always been such a bold little boy that she did not know what to make of all this hiding and clinging, but she wasn’t having it from him just now. Just now she needed him to be as presentable as possible, and she turned him by his shoulders to face forward, saying bracingly, “Neddie, this is Master Breredon. You remember Master Breredon, don’t you?”

Stupidly, Neddie shook his head that he did not, but at least he kept his head up, looking Master Breredon in the face; and Master Breredon all unexpectedly sat down on his heels, bringing him more to Neddie’s height, and said, “It’s unlikely that he would. There’s been too much happening to remember everything, hasn’t there…Neddie?”

Neddie nodded, then whispered, “Edward.”

“Edward? That’s your name?” Master Breredon asked. “That’s what you want to be called?”

Neddie nodded again.

“Edward it is then,” Master Breredon said, as solemnly as if they were making a pact between them. He stood up, lightly touched one of Neddie’s shoulders, and said to Cecely, “You still hold to your purpose?”

“If you hold to yours,” Cecely said. Master Breredon’s dark green surcoat over a deeply brown tunic was trimmed around collar and arm-slits with beaver fur. She had always admired his furs and now had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke these, their rich softness so contrasted to all the nunnery’s stale harshness. He had wealth and used it well. That was one reason she had chosen to deal with him, and keeping to business, she said, “I’m too closely watched today for anything, but tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow is Easter,” Master Breredon said quickly.

“So the nuns will be over busy with prayers and things. Tomorrow is when they’re most likely to forget me.” She wondered how he could be slow to see the good chance that gave them.

“But it’s Easter,” he insisted. “That’s not a day for doing this manner of thing.”

Cecely was held speechless for a moment. St. William! She had not counted on him being that narrow! But too much depended on his willingness, and she swallowed down her anger that he could be so stupid—she had chosen him because she thought him well-witted—and said, smiling in a way meant to warm him to her, “Monday then, yes?”

“Monday,” he agreed. “Your man will bring me word of when and how, the way he did this?”

“Yes,” Cecely said, wondering, What man? He must mean Alson’s brother. Why had Alson told
him
? Damnation and the devil! The more people who knew, the more chance someone would say something they should not! But she and Master Breredon were out of their time. A nun was moving beyond the rood screen, easily able to see them if she looked this way, and Cecely said quickly, “He’ll bring word, yes. I must go.”

She made him a quick curtsy, and before Master Breredon had finished his return bow, was pulling Neddie away with her, back toward the choir, seeing now that the nun was that unblessed Dame Frevisse and she was surely looking their way. Distrustful, prying woman. Why wasn’t she still at her praying?

There was only time to snap in a sideways whisper at Neddie, “Tell her nothing,” squeezing his hand hard to be sure he understood, before they were to the rood screen where Cecely gained a little time by pausing to curtsy toward the altar before going aside to where Dame Frevisse stood, her face hard with suspicion, devils take her.

F
revisse did not know why she had left off her praying and turned to see what Sister Cecely was doing. Holy Week’s little sleep and Lent’s last fasting had her light-headed with weariness and hunger; it was maybe simple restlessness rather than suspicion that paused her praying, rather than the wave of unease that seemed to flow around even mere thought of Sister Cecely. Sister Cecely had been a trouble to St. Frideswide’s from her first coming here—trouble enough that, in truth, St. Frideswide’s had been the better, in some ways, for her being gone. She and her cousin had been there only because their aunt, prioress for a time and ambitious for the priory, had persuaded her family to send the girls to be novices. By force of her will and unwise indulgences, she had seen the two of them through to taking the final vows that made them fully nuns, but when Domina Elisabeth succeeded her as prioress, the full measure of Sister Cecely’s ill-suitedness had begun to show itself. Always careless of the Offices, she had become resentful of all her duties and skilled at drawing not only her cousin Sister Johane into her slackness but several of the lighter nuns.

And then one spring day she had disappeared.

Fear that some manner of mischance had come to her had vanished when Domina Elisabeth’s stern questioning had brought the servant-girl Alson to tearfully admit she had taken Sister Cecely’s place in the kitchen so that Sister Cecely could meet someone in the orchard. No, Alson did not know who. Well, maybe a man. Yes, all right. A man. She was going to meet a man. No, Alson did not know what man. No, truly she didn’t. And no, no, and
no
, she didn’t think Sister Cecely was gone off with him. Sister Cecely had said she would be back before anyone but Alson knew anything about it!

Suspicion had of course turned on the well-featured young man who had left the priory the same day she had, but since it was not the guesthall servants’ business nor the hosteler’s, then, to deeply question those who stayed there, there had been uncertainty about even his name—Ratcliffe, maybe?—and no thought about where he had come from or where he was bound. He had not had much talk to any nunnery folk, and while he might have spoken more to his fellow guests, the few there had been were as gone on their ways as he was. There had been search made for him and her of course, at first nearby and then with questions farther afield with help from Abbot Gilberd when he was appealed to. One report of a woman who might be Sister Cecely was had from a village miles east of St. Frideswide’s, along with word that she had been riding pillion behind a man, looking glad to be there. If that was her, it had been the last that was known. Not much beyond there, she and this man would have reached Watling Street, the great north-south road that could have taken them to London in one direction, to almost the border of Wales in the other, and in the great flow of travelers along it no report of them had been found, and that was the end of that.

What had not ended then had been the close scrutiny both Abbot Gilberd and Bishop Lumley turned on the priory. The scandal and the retributions attendant on it that had brought Domina Elisabeth to be their prioress had already scoured the nuns to their souls. Both their faith and the priory’s accounts had been investigated in length and breadth and depth, and although Sister Cecely’s flight had not brought the accounts into question again, the nuns had once more had to undergo strong questioning, with Sister Johane, as the apostate’s cousin, taking the brunt of it. It had been an angry, unhappy time, and yet Frevisse thought that Sister Johane, in having to defend herself, had only then found out how much she truly wanted to be a nun, and surely in the years since then she had grown and deepened in her place here, become Dame Johane and nearly as skilled at healing as Dame Claire was.

As for the servant Alson, Domina Elisabeth, believing her plea that she had not known Sister Cecely meant to flee and seeing no point in dismissing a heretofore good servant from the cloister, had forgiven her for her foolishness and let her stay.

So all the rending caused by Sister Cecely had eventually healed over and been smoothed away by time, and in many ways it was a pity she was here again, not least because of the uneasiness she was making between Frevisse and her prayers, and it was impatiently that Frevisse finally amened, crossed herself, rose, and turned to see what Cecely was doing.

Afterward Frevisse had to wonder if her flare of anger when she saw Sister Cecely in talk with the man was righteous and allowable or a sin in itself. Best might have been a firm regret for Sister Cecely’s sinful weakness, mixed with prayerful hope for her amendment, but at the moment all that Frevisse felt was plain anger that Sister Cecely could not be trusted even so far as the church, not even in her son’s company. Knowing her anger was compounded with irk at having to deal with the woman at all, she did try to curb it, or at least hide it, but knew she failed at both.

Sister Cecely, seeing her, broke off her talk and came away from the man, bringing her son with her. Frevisse waited at the rood screen for them, stopped with a gesture whatever Sister Cecely was opening her mouth to say, and led her and the boy out of the church, into the cloister walk and around to the narrow slype. There they could talk with least disturbance of anyone, and Frevisse turned on Sister Cecely, who was clinging to her son’s hand, her head very humbly bowed in appearance of deep shame, but Frevisse knew for herself and all too well how much a bowed head could hide and she did not soften her demand of, “Well?”

Head still bowed, Sister Cecely said, “It wasn’t my doing. We were simply sitting there just as we did yesterday.” She stroked her son’s hair with her free hand, as if to make clear she had not been alone in the church. “The man was praying there. He started to leave. Then he came aside and spoke to us. As soon as he did, I went away from him. And you came.”

That had not been quite how it looked to Frevisse, but she might be wrong. She might be wrong, too, that there seemed more resentment than penitence under Sister Cecely’s words. Or it might simply be Sister Cecely’s shame making her sound more resentful than contrite or humble. If that was it, Sister Cecely needed to work on her shame; there was still too much of pride about it.

Unfortunately, Frevisse could not help her own too much anger as she answered, “I’ll nonetheless have to tell Domina Elisabeth what I saw. For now, for the while you have left with your son, we’ll return to the church, but now I’ll sit near you.”

“As you will,” Sister Cecely said with stiff mildness, head still bowed.

The boy was looking at the wall beside him, away from Frevisse and his mother both, and he went on looking away as they returned to the nave. There Frevisse pointed Sister Cecely to sit on the stone bench along the wall again, then sat herself a distance away, wishing she had her Lenten book to read but having to settle for folded hands and her thoughts. It surely was not wrong for her to pray and hope so hard that Abbot Gilberd would see fit to send Sister Cecely away to another nunnery. For Sister Cecely’s sake as much as St. Frideswide’s, Frevisse tried to tell herself, but was not fooled. What she wanted was Sister Cecely not here. Where Abbot Gilberd sent her or why made no difference, just so long as she was not left in St. Frideswide’s.

That did not stop Frevisse being sorry for the child, sitting there with his head hanging while Sister Cecely bent over him in whispered talk. He was unfortunate in his mother, Frevisse thought. She could not speak from motherhood herself, of course, but she had been a child and did not think she would have cared to be fawned at, the way Sister Cecely seemed to fawn at him.

Sitting there in the nave’s quiet, she found herself moving from simply irk at Sister Cecely to wondering how much she had been changed by her life and living outside the nunnery. She surely must have been changed. First there had been the giving of herself up to a man despite all the vows she had taken otherwise. Then there had been the pretence of being his wife for all those years. If they had been together all this time, it must have been under the seeming of marriage, to hide she was a nun, because an apostate nun and anyone sheltering her were liable to civil law as well as to the Church. Living in such a lie had to have had some corrosive effect on the soul. And then there were the deaths of her children. Sin-begotten though they were, they had been hers. She had held them, loved them, seen them die, and had to bury them. Frevisse could only imagine what pain there was in that—pain almost beyond bearing, surely. And then her paramour had died, and except for her one last child, everything she had gained by her sinning had been lost to her.

Had it been that that had finally brought her to humility and contrition enough to bring her back here to make good the wrong she had done when she fled from St. Frideswide’s?

Frevisse prayed so, but found that—prayer or no—she doubted it.

More than that, she found she doubted everything else about Sister Cecely, from her claim of contrition to her grief to her…no, not to her love for her son. That was surely true.

And none of it is my business, Frevisse reminded herself. Her duty was to pray for Sister Cecely’s good amendment and to tell Domina Elisabeth that she had seen Sister Cecely in talk with a man in the church. Everything else was Father Henry’s and Domina Elisabeth’s business, thank all the saints.

Later in the day she was likewise thankful when she was able to leave Sister Cecely at work in the kitchen under Dame Amicia’s eye while she made her own end-of-afternoon visit to the guesthall. There she found that no more guests had come and that Ela, as expected, had everything well in hand. That gave Frevisse chance to move among the present guests, speaking briefly to each, both for courtesy’s sake and to be sure all was well with them. She said nothing to Master Breredon about having seen him in talk with Sister Cecely, only asked how his ill servant did, remembered to thank him for his food gifts, and found him a courteous, quiet-spoken man.

She spoke to his servants, too. The woman, who indeed did not look well, claimed she was comfortable, and her husband said he was grateful that Dame Claire had already been to see her.

The parents of the small child glowed with pleasure when she asked how little Powlyn did. With him so much better, they were having a happier Easter than they had dared hope for, they said, and they thanked St. Frideswide for it.

It crossed Frevisse’s mind that the child’s bettering had as much to do with Dame Claire’s and Dame Johane’s skills as saintly care, but her next thought was to wonder who was to say that Dame Claire’s and Dame Johane’s skills were not the saint’s gift? The older she became, the more she found that faith and life’s mysteries twined together, with often neither faith nor life at all understandable.

But then, faith was not something to be “understood.” It was something to be lived.

But—come to it—that seemed to be true of life, too.

The two widows were making merry over a game of tables and dice when she came to them. One of them jestingly offered to let Frevisse take her place at the board for a while, and Frevisse as jestingly answered that, “If you’re losing so badly you want me to play, I assuredly will not take your place,” making both women laugh.

Frevisse had meant to make particular effort to talk with Mistress Lawsell and her daughter today, too, having done barely more than nod in passing to them since they came. Her intent was only increased by Ela telling her, on the quiet, that they had been to every Office since they came, even to Matins and Lauds. “And then up again for Prime,” Ela said. She did not sound approving, but Ela’s approval or disapproval aside, Frevisse was curious whether that devotion was only Mistress Lawsell’s, with her hope her daughter would become a nun, or whether the girl shared it. Ela could not tell her, was only able to offer, “She’s a quiet thing, the girl. Keeps her head down and her words to herself. It’s the mother does the talking.”

That was warning as much as report, and Frevisse found it to be true enough. Asked by Frevisse how they were, Mistress Lawsell said readily and at length that both she and her daughter were in great good and comfort of both soul and body, that their stay here was all she had hoped for, that they had nothing for which to ask. The daughter only nodded unsmiling agreement to that, not saying a word, her gaze steadily downcast until—at the last moment, when Frevisse was parting from them—she looked suddenly up, such taut misery showing in her eyes that Frevisse almost asked her outright what was the matter. But Mistress Lawsell was saying how much they looked forward to the rest of the Offices today, and Frevisse decided that some other time, without Mistress Lawsell present, would be better to talk with the girl. She realized, though, that she did not even know her name, her mother merely saying, more than once, “My daughter”; and Frevisse cut across Mistress Lawsell’s flow of words to ask the girl, “Please, what’s your name?”

Both mother and daughter looked startled, Mistress Lawsell even breaking off whatever she had been saying, making a pause into which the girl said shyly, “Elianor, if it please you, my lady.”

Frevisse bent her head in a single nod of thanks and left before Mistress Lawsell could begin again, taking with her a doubt that Elianor had any desire whatsoever to be a nun. The best she might have was desire to please her mother, and that was not enough. But Mistress Lawsell meant to stay on into Easter Week. That gave Frevisse time to find chance to talk with Elianor alone, or else suggest to Domina Elisabeth that she should do so.